


seven under starlight

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Architect Shiro, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Eventual Smut, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Librarian Keith, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nude Photos, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Piercings, Rating May Change, Secrets, Space Is Sexy, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-02 00:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: It must be the alcohol. It has to be. Shiro- he’s never felt like this about anyone, hasn’t ever taken one look at a body without knowing the mind and felt himself fall into pieces.*Or, Shiro meets Keith and wants to know everything about him.





	1. lucky seven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tagteamme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagteamme/gifts).



> i'm pulling up my big girl knickers and finally posting the first chapter.
> 
> for zan, who i've admired for a long time and felt mildly intimidated to write for.
> 
> it's a library au. i promise.

It begins with _just one drink_.

“Come on, Shiro,” Matt whines, punching at his shoulder. “It’s the end of the project, we deserve to celebrate.”

Thing is, celebrating in Matt’s terms means way more alcohol than should ever be necessary. It’s like his body craves it, the complete inebriation that comes from doing tequila shots with pretty strangers after weeks of being wrung out with stress. Shiro understands; he wants to let loose, but he’d rather do it in the comfort of his own home with his cat for company.

He never claimed to be cool.

It’s the  _please_ that gets him, the puppy dog eyes, the pout. For a grown ass man, Matt has the unnerving ability to resemble a small child on the brink of a tantrum. He doesn’t pull it out often, but when he does, Shiro can’t bear to say no, doesn’t want to know what the fall out would be.

“Fine,” he says, undoing his top button and loosening his tie. He’s sure his microwave mac and cheese and reality binge can wait one night longer- or actually, he’ll have to check the date on the packaging. “Just one drink.”

 _Just one drink_ turns into  _just one more_.

His glass of scotch isn’t even empty before Matt’s ordering him a top up. Shiro tries to protest, but Matt  _insists_ and he’s  _paying all night, you might as well have another,_ and, well, Shiro isn’t one to argue with such sound logic. He drains the watery dregs of his last drink and nurses his second as he tries to pay attention to his colleagues’ chatter.

His usual confidence and charisma settles deep within himself, only emerging as a small smile and the occasional chuckle as he lets the concoction of alcohol and exhaustion melt into his bones. He’s warm, shirt pushed up to his elbows and jacket forgotten on the back of his chair. Matt nudges him occasionally, makes sure he’s still awake; Shiro reminds him that he’s not that old despite the joking snipes about his age.

 _Just one more_ turns into  _just one night_.

He’s on the wrong side of twenty-five and he wants to prove he can still have fun. Or, that’s what he tells himself when he’s sending a text to his neighbour to check in on Luna and make sure there’s enough kibble in her bowl. Usually, at half past nine on a Friday, Shiro would be neck deep in a bubble bath, squeaky yellow duck and all. Instead, he’s walking across town, still in his dress shoes, dirty fries in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s the one in charge of leading them to the club because, as Nyma argued, he has the best navigational skills and he’s two drinks lighter than everyone at  _least_.

More logic Shiro can’t argue against.

It’s at this point, when they’re queuing for entry with no protection from the light drizzle, that Shiro wonders whether he’s a pushover. He voices this out loud for Matt’s humble opinion and together they come to the conclusion that someone in charge of so many people can’t possibly be, but maybe he’s a victim of being a tad  _too_ nice sometimes.

 Shiro doesn’t see that as a bad thing.

They shuffle inside dew-dropped and dizzy, bright spinning lights an ungodly contrast to the thick velvet of the night sky. Shiro comes to the realisation that it’s been years since he’s done anything like  _this_.

“Like what?” Matt shouts in his ear.

God, does he say everything aloud now? He shrugs, stares down at his shoes, at the lace that’s beginning to come undone, much like his carefully contained nerves.

“Clubbing.” He feels exceptionally old when the word rolls off his tongue; it ages him more than his early greys ever have.

“Don’t think about it like that,” Matt says with a laugh. Multicoloured lights shine off his bared teeth. “It’s just dancing. Even you can do that.”

Shiro’s not so sure. For a while, he stays on the sidelines, bobs his head to songs he doesn’t know and becomes the cloakroom for everyone else’s coats and bags. He doesn’t mind, not really. He catches half conversations with those he’s come to call friends, sips from a lukewarm lager Matt had got him when he wasn’t busy trying to entice the fairer sex with his dance moves- his words, not Shiro’s.

It’s fun, but it isn’t cat cuddles and carbs fun.

Until it is.

“I need a breather,” Matt announces, staggering over to him and wiping at the sweat that’s gathered at his hairline. Shiro grimaces when he rubs the moisture off on the front of his shirt but Matt just scoffs. “Why don’t you go out there?”

Shiro’s frown deepens, glancing over at the pulsating sea of bodies then back to the slightly manic eyes staring intently at him. “It’s not really my thing, you know that,”

“Bullshit.” Matt leans in closer, until his hot beer breath is fanning over Shiro’s skin and he can count the freckles that dust the tip of his nose. It would be too close if it were anyone else, too intimate; he hasn’t been this close to another human in months and he feels it in the way his body yearns to lean in closer, touch starved. “Two words, big boy: coffee table.”

 _Okay_ , he gives Matt that one. Blood rushes to his face at the memory, patchy at best, of an after finals house party where he’d taken  _go hard or go home_ a little too literally. There had been stripping involved, and an awful lot of gyrating. He’d had a bruise from falling and banging his bare hip against the edge of a table for weeks.

It had looked like an aubergine.

It’s still the display picture for their group chat.

“That’s different,” Shiro mutters, or as close as he can in a room thrumming with bass.

“Hardly,” Matt says with a huff, and then he’s draping the collection of coats Shiro’s holding over his own arms and nudging his ankles with his toes. Shiro dodges the attacks until his back hits an unknowing dancer. They turn and sneer at him before disappearing further in the crowd before Shiro can begin to offer an apology. “Great! You’re already making friends!”

“Matt.  _Matthew_.” But it’s no use. Matt turns and suddenly becomes invested in his phone and Shiro’s left to flounder by himself. One quick glance of the room and he can’t make out any familiar faces, and Shiro isn’t anywhere near drunk enough for  _this_.

So, he ends up at the bar.

For someone who wasn’t intending on having more than two drinks, he’s making good headway on his fourth. It’s just a vodka soda, nothing special, but it takes off the edge that has his jaw clenching. He isn’t nervous more so out of his comfort zone, but his heart thuds heavy against his ribs when a glass filled with red cracks down next to his, adorned with slender fingers embellished with slim silver rings.

“Well, don’t you look like you’re having the time of your life,” a voice like smoke drawls, crackling around the edges as it reaches Shiro’s ears. Even before he turns, he can feel his blood heat from the fire of him, can feel the hot coals of a pair of eyes blister his skin.

Shiro’s at a loss for words. He sees black and burgundy; dark eyes, darker hair, red leather and long,  _long_ legs. It hurts to swallow, but he forces himself to do it; he feels as if there are shards of glass stuck in his throat. “I-  _yeah_.”

The perfect stranger cocks a half smile, but it’s more amused than mocking. He tilts his head, wavy hair falling over his shoulder, as he licks his parted lips. Shiro catches a flash of silver and feels his heart miss a beat. “Yeah?”

“I mean, no,” he quickly corrects himself before reassessing himself once again. “I mean, I’m not  _not_ having fun, I’m just-”

“Relax,” he says, and his laugh is almost too beautiful to bear. Shiro feels weak, in the knees, the head, the heart, like a teenager all over again instead of a man steadily approaching his thirties. He forces himself to take a sip of his drink but almost spits it out when he feels an elbow dig into his side. “It’s not my scene either.”

“Oh.” For someone who gives at least one presentation a week, he really doesn’t know how to conjure the right words. He taps his fingers against his glass and tries to force himself to look anywhere but to his left, but it’s hard when he can feel the body next to him shuffle and shift, and Shiro’s suddenly terrified that he’s going to slip away before he can redeem himself. “What brings you here, then?”

“Designated driver. Owed someone a favour.” Shiro looks over to see him wave his hand dismissively, the gems in his rings catching the light. “This may look like a cape cod, but in reality, it’s just the cranberry juice.”

He brings his glass to his mouth, and Shiro can’t help it, but he stares at his stained lips, full and red. The embarrassing urge to lean in and lick the juice consumes him and it takes all of his self-restraint to buckle himself and keep composed.

It must be the alcohol. It  _has_ to be. Shiro- he’s never felt like this about anyone, hasn’t ever taken one look at a body without knowing the mind and felt himself fall into pieces.

“I’m Keith, by the way.” A hand extends his way. He knows he’s expected to take it, but he stares at it a beat longer than he should, at the scratched black polish on his nails, the small cuts on his elegant fingers, highlighted briefly by a stab of strobing.  _Beautiful_.  

He feels the callouses when their skin meets, the roughness of his palms, but he feels the softness too, smooth skin over delicate bone. They don’t shake; their hands suspend, embraced, between them as their eyes meet properly for the first time. They pierce through Shiro's fickle heart, clear like crystal and so  _so_ blue. Violet, almost, he concludes, licking his parted lips before saying, “Shiro. Just Shiro.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, elongating the syllables as if savouring them. His grip tightens on Shiro’s for a heartbeat before he lets go. He hates himself, but he can’t stop the small trickle of disappointment from creeping in, even if he can still feel the lingering warmth from his skin. “Well,  _Shiro, just Shiro_ , I think we should have some fun too, right?”

“What do you suggest?” Shiro asks, offering a half shrug of his shoulders. He watches as Keith knocks back the rest of his juice and surveys the room, eyes narrowing until a sharp smile pierces the corners of his lips.

“I mean, just one dance wouldn’t hurt, would it?” He says casually, as if the words haven’t caused Shiro’s whole world to spiral in an intoxicating blur of lights and lust and  _Keith_.

“I don’t dance,” Shiro says weakly even as he’s following Keith, guided by the hand that’s wrapped around his wrist even as he’s blinded by flashing strobes. He feels light-headed, but in a good way.

 _Just one dance_. It couldn’t hurt- except, Shiro doesn’t know if he can handle it, the promise of  _just one_. They haven’t started and he already wants another, and another after that.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he isn’t ready for Keith looping his arms around Shiro’s neck and drawing him close. He freezes, half at the press of metal at his nape but mostly out of uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to do with his  _hands-_ well, he knows where he wants to place them, on a tapered waist beneath a motorcycle jacket, but he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to.

“What, am I supposed to be doing all of the work?” Keith says, leaning up to speak into Shiro’s ear and  _God_ , his mouth accidentally brushes against the shell and Shiro  _shudders_. When he doesn’t react, Keith laughs, a vibration that Shiro feels through his body and deep behind his ribs, and unwinds himself to guide his hands to rest against his hips. “That’s better.”

“I told you,” Shiro says, flexing his fingers against Keith’s body then thinking  _fuck it_ and dragging him in close. “I don’t dance.”

And he doesn’t, but he does sway, even if the upbeat tempo of the music fights against him. Keith smiles up at him, big and bright, and lets his head fall back. It bares his long throat of pale, pearlescent flesh, emphasises the sharp cut of his jaw, the heavy curl of his lashes. Shiro’s head dips to look at him closer, hungrily traces the fading curve of a scar curling over his cheek unnoticeable before in the shadows of the bar. He doesn’t know how an imperfection can make someone seem so perfect, maybe it’s because of his own scar carved over the bridge of his nose, but it completes the portrait of temptation and Shiro finds it harder to resist.

“You move pretty well,” Keith says, lips barely moving and voice so soft Shiro has to strain to hear, “For someone who doesn’t dance.”

“Maybe I just have the perfect partner,” he counters. It’s been so long since he’s indulged in flirtation but the words flow easily from his mouth.

“Maybe.” Keith smiles, a small spark that sets the world on fire. His fingers curl into Shiro’s collar and he tugs teasing. His nails graze the skin beneath his shirt; Shiro wonders whether they’d claw into his back, kiss red against his skin as they came together. “Wanna get some fresh air?”

A good idea, really; he needs to clear his head from these lustful thoughts. It’s hard, though, when Shiro follows Keith through the crowd, when his eyes wander down up his legs to the curve of his ass in impossibly tight denim. Quite the sight to behold, really; Shiro’s tongue lies heavy in his dry mouth.

They pick up a bottle of water at the bar and head out, the damp night air a refreshing change to the sticky heat of the club. Shiro drags in lungfuls of it, trying to awaken the rational part of himself, but every time he catches Keith’s eye, he’s left breathless all over again. He looks older in moonlight, wiser, as if crafted from the stars themselves, a keeper of their secrets. Shiro tilts his head up, tries to focus on the constellations he’s loved since childhood, but he spends more time staring at this new central pedal force of his universe.

“It’s crazy, don’t you think?” Keith muses, features soft and wistful. They sit on a low wall, too close together to be casual, their hands millimetres apart. Keith brushes his pinkie against Shiro’s to capture his attention, but what he doesn’t know is that it’s already all his. “The sun, the moon, the stars. How tiny we are in comparison to the greater universe. Sometimes I can’t bear to think about it, other times it’s all I  _can_ think about.”

“I understand you,” Shiro murmurs, steeling himself before linking their pinkies together. He catches the palest pink dust Keith’s cheeks before it fades back into pure starlight. “Sometimes it makes me want to do more, be something, become someone who matters, yet sometimes it makes me wonder if it’s worth it at all.”

They’re quiet for a moment, breath curling out of their lungs in ghostly wisps before twining together midair. Keith sighs and shifts against the brick. Shiro thinks he’s overstepped his mark, got too deep with the existentialism and scared him off. He can’t help it, though; even in silence, Shiro feels more comfortable than he has in a long time. It’s been half an hour, maybe, thirty minutes, one thousand eight hundred seconds, but it feels like months. Years. A lifetime, even, building up to this moment outside a shitty club in the cold.

“Yeah,” Keith says eventually, leaning in closer until his head rests against Shiro’s shoulder. It’s a sudden weight to bear but not an unwelcome one, the universe balanced against his collarbone. “Yeah, you do understand.”

They don’t settle into silence. Instead, Keith talks about constellations and zodiacs, myths and legends and star-crossed lovers. Shiro chimes in too, when he feels his input will be accepted, and it always is with enthusiasm. He’s missed talking about everything and nothing, the vastness of the world around them, the secrets that hold it together.

“Did you know,” Keith begins, knocking his knee against Shiro’s. He’s trembling lightly in the cold despite the jacket Shiro’s draped over his shoulders. “That there’s a superstition about counting stars. Only seven a night, seven nights in a row. On the eighth day, you’ll meet the love of your life.”

“Sounds romantic,” Shiro muses, tilting his head back. He doesn’t count, though, doesn’t want to risk what’s happening between them in this moment. “I always heard that counting was supposed to be bad luck. Reach one hundred and you’ll die.”

“Duh,” Keith says with a huff. “That’s why you stop at seven. It’s a lucky number, after all.”

“So I’ve heard,” Shiro murmurs. When he turns, Keith’s already looking up at him, already smiling this delicate little thing that makes Shiro’s pulse thrum like a trapped bird.  _Beat beat beat beat beat beat beat_. Keith’s tapping his heel against the brick, the echo throbbing in Shiro’s chest. It feels like a sign. Shiro shifts, laces their fingers together and squeezes until Keith’s looking up at him with stargazer eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Keith repeats softly. The quiet wonder hasn’t left his expression, even now that he’s looking at Shiro. Shiro dips his head until their foreheads touch, an unspoken question between them as his fingers come to rest beneath Keith’s chin. Shiro waits, lets himself memorise the beauty of Keith’s bone structure, smooths a thumb over his skin until it rests beneath the swell of his lower lip. It trembles. He wants this, wants it as much as Shiro.

They come together like water, flowing until two pairs of lips, two pairs of lungs, move and breathe as one. Keith tastes like night air and the tart tang of cranberries, and he kisses with a thirst Shiro feels reciprocated in his own blood. The first touch of his tongue is tantalising; it brushes against Shiro’s own in a way that’s so familiar- and then it’s not. The small barbell of his piercing is a shock when he first feels it but it ignites something inside him, and Shiro changes the angle, seeking more, something deeper.

One of Keith’s hands is in his hair, the other clinging to Shiro’s shirt, both tugging until Shiro presses closer, tucks a hand beneath the fabric of Keith’s tee and strokes the notches of his spine. A gasp escapes into the night, and Shiro takes it as his opportunity to chase it, kissing Keith’s lips once more before trailing them to his chin, the juncture of his jaw, brushing them against Keith’s ear much in the same way he had earlier.

It’s  _just one kiss_ , but he’s never felt more alive.

“Shiro, I-” Keith begins, moaning lightly as Shiro’s mouth sucks at the pulse fluttering in his throat, wanting to taste the very life of him. “I want-”

“Hey!” A shout echoes across the parking lot, and the two of them shoot apart. They stare at each other, lips swollen and wet, chests heaving, before Keith turns and seeks out the source of the voice. “There you are!”

Keith audibly groans, slapping the butt of his palm against his forehead. Shiro shares the same sentiments but keeps them to himself, instead watching as Keith smooths down his hair, rubs the slick off of his mouth and straightens himself as a guy in a horrifying Hawaiian shirt approaches them.

“Hope I’m not intruding,” he says in a way that suggests he knows that's exactly what he’s doing, “But Lance is currently throwing up and is two seconds away from being kicked out. We need to bounce.”

“But-” Keith tries subtly gesturing between him and Shiro with his chin. “ _Hunk_.”

“Come on, dude, you’ve gotta help me out here,” Hunk says and God, he has puppy eyes too, like Matt’s but worse because the dude’s lashes are so much longer. “He’s  _crying_ again, over  _Allura_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith mutters and, again, the feeling’s mutual. Shiro rubs the back of his neck as Keith heaves a frustrated breath. “Give me a sec!”

He turns back to Shiro, apologetic, a hand smoothing down the errant hair that’s stirring in the breeze. His lips part, and he wets them with the tip of his tongue.

“ _Dude,_ come on,” Hunk says before Keith can say anything.

This time Hunk isn’t spared from the venom of his stare. “I said one second!”

Keith takes a moment to compose himself, eyes flitting shut, breath dragging in through his nose. His fingers curl into his palm before he rethinks and reaches for Shiro’s hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m  _so_ sorry about this,” he says, patting down his pockets before scowling. “Can I borrow that pen?”

He nods towards the  _Mont Blanc_ Shiro keeps clipped in his shirt pocket, a gift from his grandfather after finishing university. “Y-yeah.”

With fingers that tremble, Shiro offers it to him. Keith rips the lid off and holds it between his teeth, reaching for Shiro's arm and twisting until the veined underside is exposed. He jots down eleven numbers in stocky script- a phone number, Shiro realises belatedly. Keith’s phone number.

“Call me?” Keith asks. He sounds hopeful, which is baffling because Shiro would be the lucky one if he even answered. He holds onto the pen as he hands it back to Shiro, tugs lightly so Shiro’s urged forwards.  “I’ll pick up, I promise.”

“I’ll call you,” Shiro breathes, a promise he’s looking forward to keeping.

“You better.” Their lips meet one final time, barely a brush of skin, but it’s enough to heat the hidden depths of Shiro’s soul. When Keith pulls away, it’s with regret in his eye but a curve to his mouth. Hunk’s calling him again, and this time he’s joined by a second voice- Lance, Shiro’s assuming, if the drunken commotion is anything to go by. Keith rolls his eyes as he pushes away, hopping the wall and stalking off with a single hand raised over his shoulder. “See you around,  _Shiro just Shiro_.”

He watches Keith walk away with a heavy heart, stares at the sliver of space between buildings that he disappears through for longer than he’d ever like to admit.  _Keith_. And eleven numbers made up of seven sevens. That’s all he knows, and that’s all he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you're anyone who knows me, you know that i am, in fact, a librarian. zan's description was the one i actually really wanted to fucking get and look what happened. i've kinda fallen out of love with my job atm but you know, this fic is so fun to write and i'm so glad that i got the opportunity to do it.
> 
> i've written three chapters so far, everything should be done by next weds: aka, pray for cat, you know what she's like
> 
> i don't have the best track record with sheith (enchanted? we don't know her) but i've actually been privately writing them for the longest time, before i even watched the show lol. i knew this exchange would be the thing i needed to get my arse in gear and JUST. DO IT!!!
> 
> memes aside, i hope y'all enjoyed the first chapter! i'll be furiously writing the next ones. 
> 
> big thank you to tori (@thoughtsappear) and meg (@_voxane) for beta'ing and holding my hand like the big ol' baby i am!
> 
> find me here:
> 
> [ tumblr (if that's even still a thing): zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ twitter, my main h2hoe: @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> see y'all real soon
> 
> xoxo Cat


	2. stars aligned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally. the library in the library au.

“I just don’t understand,” Shiro mumbles, sinking lower into his sofa cushions as Matt sighs in exasperation from the opposite side. 

It’s been three days. Only three, and yet, every day since has felt like a day without oxygen, or whatever love sick analogy his poor brain dares come up with. It wouldn’t be so bad if Shiro had heard from Keith- in fact, he’s sure his happiness would increase tenfold- but there’s just the smallest inconvenience in the fact that he  _ hadn’t _ . Not a single word, verbally or in writing. 

Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Maybe he shouldn’t have waited a day. Even though he is, he hadn’t wanted to appear eager, instead staring at the numbers blotting his skin. They’d seeped like watercolour when he’d showered that night and they’re now nothing more than cosmic smears on his forearm, black bleeding to blue. He has a picture, though, saved on his phone, from when the ink was barely dry. 

He stares at it now, at the slant of his writing, and curses those lucky sevens to the heavens.

“He was so…” He feels the word echo.  _ So so so _ . It sums Keith up, the unexplainable sentiment of ending a sentence on a sigh. “So…  _ everything _ .”

“You’re being melodramatic,” Matt says, poking Shiro in the thigh with a toe.

Shiro knows this, but he can’t help it- no, really, he can’t, he  _ promises _ . He says as much and gets a pillow to the face and spends the next few minutes pulling cat hair from his mouth.

He phoned Keith on Sunday. It had taken him hours to work up his courage, every steel tipped nerve he’s ever collected in the business world put to use just to press one button. The dial tone rang. What would he say? Was he even interesting when the possibility of hooking up wasn’t there? Was he good enough-?

The call dropped. Shiro’s heart followed.

He had shrugged it off, at first, texted the number instead with his name and a very flirtatious  _ how are you? _  Maybe he should have tried something more risque, maybe he wasn’t worth Keith’s attention with casual conversation. It was the third attempt that it hit him, that maybe Keith had strung him along, spoke of space and stars to entice lonely strangers to share part of the night with him before ditching. 

Maybe he hadn’t liked him. Maybe it had all been a fluke.

And now, to top it off, Shiro is day five in on his week off, where he has all the time in the world to fixate without even the tedium of work to distract him. 

He thinks, if he wanted to humour his god awful behaviour, that his life could be one of those pretentious names an indie band gives to a teenage anthem. Wake up, mope, smell the coffee and mope, wander through life mopingly, then die (whilst moping). He almost tells Matt this before he realises just how pathetic it is, how pathetic  _ he _ is.

Because it isn’t funny. Shiro knows he’s acting like a child-  _ but _ , in his defence, he  _ is _ only six and three quarters.

And yet.

“He said he’d answer,” Shiro whines to Matt, and he hates how piteous he sounds. Together, they’ve been scouring social media for over an hour for a ‘Keith’ that doesn’t seem to exist. Their only hits are balding, beer-bellied men reaching past their middle age. No starlight, no mysterious beauty. He thinks of Keith,  _ his _ Keith, and wonders if he pulled out a name from thin air. The thought of it hurts; he can’t even remember his friend saying it either. “He  _ promised _ .”

“Who’s even called Keith, anyway?” Matt comments, scrolling through yet another dud facebook page. Shiro takes a sulking bite from his macaroni cheese- cold and limp, just like his heart. He represses a sigh as he chews. “I’m sorry, buddy, but he gave you a fake name for sure.”

“He didn’t- he  _ wouldn’t _ ,” Shiro insists, chewing on his fork. Bright eyes flash through his mind, the echo of a laugh, a smile. He’d been so warm, so  _ alive _ . He’d made Shiro feel like every heartbeat mattered, like  _ he’d _ mattered, in that moment. “He’s different, Matt.”

“Then why isn’t he picking up?” Matt counters, closing out of yet another social media account. Shiro’s silence is indication enough that there isn’t a rational answer. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re supposed to be supporting me,” he grumbles, scooping Luna up as she walks unexpecting past the sofa. She mewls in protest, claws extending into the soft skin of Shiro’s forearm before settling, curling up on Shiro’s thighs and lazily licking the remains from his plastic pasta tray.

“And I  _ am _ . What do you think all of this is, Shiro?” Matt says, gesturing to his laptop, Shiro’s phone, the list of patchy information Shiro had managed to scrounge together. “Maybe it’s just for the best if you, y’know,  _ forgot _ him.” 

It’s easier said than done, though, forgetting someone who shifted the world on its axis and illuminated the sky above. He’s weaving poetry, he’s always had the tendency to when he’s feeling extra broody, but he can’t help it. Keith is… Keith  _ was _ that to him, if only for a small capsule of time. Light against the drab grey of his everyday life.

“Maybe he wrote it down wrong,” Shiro mutters, but he can’t even convince himself. He scratches Luna’s chin then brings her up until his face is smushed into her soft stomach.

“You said he was sober.” Matt’s voice is muffled through an earful of cat fur. “No one writes down their own number wrong unless they don’t want someone to contact them.”

He knows. Shiro  _ knows _ that, has had the logic lingering in the back of his mind ever since the first phone call. But… that wasn’t a kiss given to someone you want to string along. Shiro had felt Keith’s soul within it, yearning, like his own.

“Shiro, I get it,” Matt tries again. The sofa sags next to him and a hand cups his knee. “You’re a hopeless romantic. Your heart loves too easily. It’s gotten you hurt before.”

“I know,” Shiro says, gnawing on his lip. “I  _ know _ , but he was different. We talked about  _ space _ .”

Matt’s laughter is short and staccato, bitten off when he sees Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Space.  _ Sexy _ .” 

“It was.” Maybe sexy isn’t the right word, but enchanting, captivating. Shiro thirsts for the knowledge inside Keith’s brain, the universe as he sees it, as it sees him. That, to Shiro, is sexy, intimate in a way you just can’t find in a trail of clothes on a bedroom floor. “You just don’t get it.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Matt says, waving a hand, “But we can’t spend the rest of the day chasing nothing.”

Shiro hums and stares at the ceiling, twisting his fingers together. Is he really willing to give up? After everything? He bites on his lip and holds Luna tighter to his chest, defensive, as if she can protect him from the world.

Or, more realistically, from the wrath of a Holt.

“Right,” Matt says, punctuated by the crack of his laptop snapping shut. He pushes himself to his feet and brushes himself down, giving Shiro a pointed look that cuts through the clouds of gloom and twists in his stomach. “We’re going out.”

“What?” Shiro straightens, rubbing a hand over his face and scratching at the two-day stubble that bristles his skin. God, he should really fix that, and from the way Matt looks down at him with an eyebrow raised, he shares the same sentiment. “I don’t know, Matt. I don’t think I’m up for it.”

“Bullshit,” he says, placing a palm against his prickly cheek and giving it a hearty slap- to knock some sense into him, Shiro thinks. He’s not sure if he quite succeeds; his thoughts still linger on Keith. “You need fresh air. Adventure. A new thing to focus that infatuated little mind of yours on.”

Shiro sighs in defeat. He hates it when Matt is right, almost as much as Matt likes  _ being _ right- but yeah. Maybe a distraction would be good. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Matt says, reaching out and helping to haul Shiro off the sofa. Luna mewls and dashes between Matt’s legs, and through the open door Shiro can see her hiding beneath the bed; he wishes he could join her. “Actually, we’re going shopping. Your fridge is an abomination that needs to be blessed and sanctified.”

“I wouldn’t go that far-” 

Matt cuts him off with a snort, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “You have half a block of tofu and a bottle of cranberry juice. You don’t even  _ like _ cranberries.”

Matt’s right; Shiro  _ hadn’t _ liked cranberries, but that was before he had tasted it from Keith’s lips. 

He hangs his head, ashamed. “... I’ll get changed.”

*

Shopping is a quick affair between the two of them and Shiro decides, now that he’s up and dressed, maybe he should try and do something a little more productive than pining. They drop everything back at Shiro’s place as Shiro suggests that, maybe, they could go for a walk-

“Or something,” he says with a shrug, once he’s poured the last of the cranberry juice down the drain to make room for his much preferred OJ. Matt can’t hide his surprise- in the past, it’s taken Shiro weeks to bounce back from rejection- and grasps hold of the opportunity, tight.

“Actually,” he says, already grabbing his car keys.

It’s the comic book store. It’s  _ always _ the comic book store when it comes to Matt, and Shiro isn’t surprised that he’s using the excuse of dragging him out to browse through the collections. It’s not like he has anything against them- Shiro has quite the collection of manga himself- it’s just that- it’s Matt. He could stay here for hours, will stay here for hours, unless Shiro drags him out by the ear. He’s known by  _ name _ , for Christ’s sake, the owner makes him  _ coffee _ .

“I won’t be long,” Matt hums, despite it already being half an hour. Shiro thinks that this is part of the plan all along, guilt him into leaving the house, maybe into buying him a comic or two for putting up with his whinging. And Matt isn’t wrong; Shiro’s forking out a twenty from his wallet and handing it over before leaving to do his own thing.

He walks aimlessly for a while, peering into shop windows and studying the landscape around him. The town in which they live is an artsy little place, the kind with hanging basket overflowing with flowers and the stark black and white panelling of Tudor buildings. It’s what made him fall in love with architecture and design, the beauty held within old walls, the secrets. His fingers twitch, wanting to sketch, to create.

It’s not all archaic, though, like all blossoming business towns.  Between the wood and the woven roofs is concrete, looming and gloomy. He approaches a building now of grotty grey brick, with wide windows smudged with fingerprints and peeling paint he itches to pick at. Unapologetically ordinary, in need of a little TLC. A library, Shiro comes to realise when he spots the sign hanging over the door.

He finds himself wandering inside. He’s not altogether sure why, but the warmth that envelopes him is pleasant. Welcoming, as is the scent of ageing paper, the soft colours of the wall displays. They’re a watercolour of reds bleeding into blush, reminding Shiro of sunsets, of lingering warmth and long car rides chasing the final seconds of sun.

Shiro smiles.

He hasn’t set foot in a library since his university days and the memories of long, lonely nights researching amongst the shelves still make him shudder. He reminds himself, though, that no two experiences are ever the same.

What’s that saying, again?

Don’t judge a book by its cover. 

"Hello," someone greets him when he reaches the front desk, a willowy woman with hair like starlight who smiles as if she's genuinely happy to see him. Slow day, maybe, Shiro muses, eyes flickering to the name badge hanging around her neck- Allura. She’s still smiling at him, although the glow has softened to a simmer.  _ Allura _ . Why is the name so familiar? "How can I help?”

“Uh…” Shiro glances around, scratching the back of his neck. He hadn’t exactly thought this far ahead, but he doesn’t want to disappoint the radiant stranger before him. “I’d like to take out a membership?”

“Oh, excellent!” she says, clapping her hands together. “If you just go to the next desk along, my colleague will be able to do that for you!”

Shiro follows where she gestures with a hand, to a figure hunched over a hardback that doesn’t even look up as he approaches. A blessing, really; it gives Shiro a few seconds to check him out as his heart shudders to a halt in his chest. Long hair dragged back at the nape of his neck, a row of shiny studs through his ear, fingerless gloves, cracked black polish- it’s familiar.  _ Too _ familiar.

The book is an encyclopedia on space.

“Keith?” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

A scowl smooths into a small parting of his lips, brows raised, eyes wide. A storm of emotions colours his face, passing so quick Shiro doesn’t have time to study them before Keith schools his face into cold neutrality. 

“Shiro,” he tests, his body tensing beneath the weight of his name. It’s only then that Shiro notices, really notices, the exhaustion held in Keith’s features, skin pale and papery, dark bruises beneath tired eyes. He looks how Shiro feels, had felt over the past seven days- which, to put it bluntly, is like  _ shit _ . “You’re  _ here _ .”

“I’m here.” He takes a seat at the desk so they’re equal, and when their eyes meet again it’s with an intensity greater than the weight of the universe. They’re lucky it’s quiet, that there’s no one around to disturb them; Shiro doesn’t know whether he could bear leaving now that he’s somehow managed to find Keith again.

“You-” Keith begins but cuts himself off his a cough. He blinks at Shiro before marking his page with a folded paper star and setting the book to one side. “You didn’t  _ call _ .”

“What?” Shiro’s brow furrows, hands grappling for his phone, to prove himself. “I- I  _ did _ . You didn’t pick up.”

“I couldn’t pick up if there wasn’t a call to  _ answer _ ,” Keith says, voice clipped. He clicks around on his computer, chin raised defensively.

“But I  _ did _ ,” Shiro argues, showing him his call log. It takes Keith a few seconds to look over but when he does, his face softens, just a fraction, eyes scanning the screen. It’s pathetic, really, how many times Shiro tried, but surely that’d work out in his favour. “I called you. And texted. Then searched for you on social media, Keith, I  _ promise _ .”

_ Please _ , he begs, fingers curled into his jeans. He isn’t one to pray but all of his energy is asking, pleading with a higher power.  _ Please let him believe me _ .

Keith huffs, tucking errant flyaways behind his ear. He takes a keen interest in his nails, picking at chipping varnish with pursed lips. “I don’t have social media.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Shir mutters, shifting in his seat. “I thought you were playing me, you know. Who’s even called Keith, anyway?”

“ _ I’m _ called Keith,” he argues, eyes flashing. It’s not with anger, though. Humour, maybe. Hope? Shiro doesn’t want to look too far into it, not now, not when things are so fragile between them.

“Keith Kogane,” Shiro says, feeling the syllables on his tongue. They’re warm, woven with gold, sweet like honey as the drip over his lips. “You know, if your name tag is correct.”

Keith blinks at him, lips parted. Pink begins to crawl up his neck, ending as two rosy blossoms at the tips of his ears.“Yeah, it’s correct.”

They look at each other for a heartbeat, and then there’s laughter.

“God, what even  _ happened _ ?” Keith says, reaching forwards for Shiro’s phone. “Let me see that number.”

Shiro smiles at the little divot between Keith’s brows as he studies, as his mouth moves silently reciting. He’s stunning, even beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting in the library, just like he had been in flashing strobe, like he had been painted in moonlight.

“Shiro, who has  _ seven _ sevens?” he snorts, and shit, it had been wrong. He knew it. He  _ knew _ it- he can’t wait to tell Matt that, for once, he was  _ wrong _ .

“I don’t know,” Shiro says, with a shrug, looking anywhere but at the amusement that’s brightened Keith’s face. “I thought it was like fate or something.”

“ _ Fate _ ,” he repeats, deadpan. Yeah, Shiro can see just how stupid the sentiment was.

“Yeah,” he says despite himself, gesturing between the two of them with a finger. “Like this.”

Keith makes a little noise that gets trapped in the back of his throne. It sounds suspiciously like a squeak, but Shiro ignores it in favour of watching the blush seep into his skin once again. 

Keith clears his throat, moving papers around his desk with purpose.  “Can I actually help with you something?”

“I was going to take out a library card, but maybe I could get your real number?” Shiro asks, holding out his phone.

“Hmm, it’s against policy to give out personal info.” Keith pushes it away, but he’s smiling something fierce. It makes Shiro’s heart thud heavy against his ribs. “I get off in half an hour, though?” 

Shiro grins. “Okay. In the meantime, though, membership?” 

“Membership.” Keith’s already got a card out, ready and waiting. “Got any ID?”

Shiro fishes out his wallet and hands over his driver’s license, grimacing at the grainy photo. The him from nearly ten years ago had considerably chubbier cheeks and shaggier hair. Not the kinda thing he wants to show a man he maybe,  _ kinda _ , wants to take out on a date later.

“So your name isn’t actually Shiro,  _ just Shiro _ ,” Keith hums, typing his information into the computer “Ain’t that right,  _ Takashi _ ?”

“I-I wasn’t lying,” Shiro stammers, cringing internally at his own hypocrisy. “It’s a nickname.”

“I know,” Keith says, biting back a smile. Despite the darkness beneath them, his eyes shine with humour, bright like when they first met. “I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Shiro feels foolish, rubbing the back of his neck. He watches Keith click away from beneath his lashes, the soft curve of the smile on his lips. He has a feeling that he doesn’t smile often, hasn’t smiled in a while. 

“So,” Keith says, bracing his fingers together and clicking his joints. Just the small gesture, the suggestion of power behind it, makes Shiro’s tongue feel clumsy in his mouth. “Have you ever been a library member within the county before?”

It doesn’t take long for them to set everything up. Turns out, he has been a member before, and he does have a small collection of fines. Keith tuts as he shakes his head, but waives them all anyway as he tells Shiro to sign the back of his new card. 

“I can’t be doing that for you every time, though,” Keith comments, slipping him a sheet of paper with a list of fines and rental charges. “You’re lucky I’m the best librarian  _ ever _ .”

“Ever?” Shiro questions, lifting a brow. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, ducking his head. When he looks up, it’s from beneath heavy lashes. Shiro doesn’t stand a chance. “I’m very good at checking things out.”

He doesn’t think he could speak if he tried, so it’s a good job that Allura approaches them, papers in hand, asking Keith for advice in a whole bunch of library jargon Shiro doesn’t understand. He takes it as his cue to get up, gesturing to Keith that he’ll be outside, but he definitely isn’t leaving.

He has his phone pressed up to his ear before he even makes it out the door. “Matt, you’re never going to believe this.”

*

“So,” Shiro says, a stepfall behind Keith. “A librarian, huh?”

“So what?” Keith says, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing the same red leather jacket from Friday night but his jeans have considerably less rips in them. “Not what you were expecting?”

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Shiro says honestly. A barista. A bartender, perhaps? But what kind of bartender frequents bars on their nights off. “I like it, though. It fits you.”

“It’s just the day job,” Keith says, shrugging, a shoulder. “What about you, Mr. Business Suit? Not looking quite so sharp now, are you?”

“Ah.” Shiro rubs the back of his neck. Keith’s right, of course; his jeans are unwashed and vaguely stained and his sweatshirt’s lettering has faded long ago. He wishes he was wearing something different, something more appealing- but, if Keith is willing to be with him when he’s not at his best, is that really a bad thing? “I’m an architect, of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” They come to a stop at a crossing, the red light fanning across Keith’s skin. It’s his colour, Shiro comes to realise, like nebulas, like fire.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, licking his lips. He’s always hated talking about his work, even if he’s proud of what he’s achieved. “I run my own company.”

Keith whistles, nudging him with his elbow. “So you’re some kind of bigshot, then.”

“Not really.” Shiro shrugs, and Keith takes the hint and leads the conversation elsewhere. 

They stop for coffee, walking away with paper cups, steam curling up into the air. He follows Keith blindly; he thinks, perhaps, he would follow him anywhere if given the chance. They don’t go far, just to a small park nestled between tall buildings, strolling around a pond’s edge as they talk and talk and talk. 

It’s  _ easy _ . It’s never been this easy to speak without thinking. Shiro absorbs every word that leaves Keith’s lips, savours the sound of his voice when he speaks about books, about art and literature, about the great beyond. His mind; God, Shiro knows what it’s like to fall for a body but he’s never fallen for a mind before. He wants to know everything, every secret, every fleeting thought. Every neuron matters, every atom, every breath.

And Keith listens too. He’s so used to having to impress that he’s relieved that he’s already got his full attention, directed at him with large wondering eyes, the easy tilt of his head. They sit out by the pond despite the chill and watch the sun’s reflection die on the water, red to purple to pitch black nothingness. It’s cold, but Shiro feels nothing but heat, nothing but the warmth that radiates from Keith’s very being.

He’s found him.

“You know,” Keith murmurs, fiddling with the edge of his cup. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what?” Shiro asks, but he has a feeling he already he knows; he couldn’t stop thinking about it, either.

“The kiss.” Keith flushes at his words, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. “No one’s ever kissed me like that before.”

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Shiro says quietly, grazing his fingers over Keith’s. “If you’ll let me.”

And Keith does. He leans over and plants a hand against Shiro’s thigh and kisses him with the same longing Shiro’s felt this past week, hot and hard, messy with desperation. Their lips part and it’s so easy, just like their conversation, to get lost in the sensation of skin on skin, in the hand burying itself in Shiro’s hair.

“I told myself I’d take it slow,” Keith breathes when they part, resting their foreheads together. “If we ever got the chance.”

“Then we can take it slow,” Shiro promises, sealing it with a long, lingering kiss that leaves them both breathless. “We can take it so slow, baby.”

They walk back with their fingers entwined, swinging in the small space between them. Shiro doesn’t think his heart has ever felt so full, not like this, not with anyone else. They stop off at a street vendor and share an order of cheesy chips, and Shiro knows they look sickening, but he can’t help but smile around the wooden fork when Keith feeds him as they walk. 

It’s simple. It’s great. It’s everything Shiro’s wanted for so long.

“I know we said we were going to take it slow,” Keith says, coming to a stop. They’re outside the library now, although it’s long since closed, the entire street empty despite a lone red motorbike chained up across the road. “But what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says quickly, ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth. “Seeing you, I hope.”

“Eager,” Keith says, laughing, but he presses a hand against Shiro’s chest and pushes up to meet him. “Yeah, let’s do something. Anything. I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” Shiro says, holding Keith’s jaw and brushing his scar with his thumb. There’s so much he still doesn’t know, but there’s a thrill about it, of knowing he has so much left to discover. “How’re you getting home?”

Keith nods towards the bike- and, God, Shiro isn’t exactly surprised, but his jaw drops anyway. Keith laughs freely and Shiro feels it rumble through his body. “Easy there, tiger, I don’t want to have to resuscitate you on the pavement.”

“If it includes mouth to mouth, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind,” he retorts, watching as Keith’s nose wrinkles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“God, your jokes are so  _ bad _ ,” Keith says, breathless with laughter- yeah,  _ joke _ , like Shiro isn’t entirely open to being kissed senseless on the side of the road. He collects himself quickly, shaking his head before pressing a chaste kiss to Shiro’s cheek. “I’ll text you, okay? On the right number this time.”

“Promise?” Keith steps out of Shiro’s arms, and he already misses him, misses his warmth, the weight of his body around him. It’s only until tomorrow, though. He can be patient, until then.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding his assurance more to himself than to Keith. “I promise.”

Keith steps into the road and Shiro watches him go, waving when he glances over his shoulder and waiting until the roar of the bike has long since disappeared into the night’s air to turn around.

_ Wow _ .

And that’s when Shiro realises; he doesn’t have a ride.

Shit.

“So then, loverboy,” Matt says, once Shiro finally works up his nerve to call. He can hear the amusement in his voice, the smirk that’s definitely stretching across his mouth, and he knows that there’s endless amounts of teasing in his very near future. Shiro doesn’t care, though; it’ll be worth it, to be with Keith. “How did it go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse why this has taken me so long to upload besides not wanting to face the mistakes from writing's past.
> 
> i said five chapters- it is most probably going up to six? because my ideas are too big? everything is supposed to be uploaded by wednesday but...
> 
> hmmm.
> 
> thank you so much for your kudos/comments/love on twitter! i'll be responding when i can break away from writing the rest!
> 
> as always, find me here 
> 
> [ tumblr (if that's even still a thing): zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ twitter, my main h2hoe: @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> xoxo Cat


	3. satisfied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, as always, to tori for being my writing rock!

True to their word, they take it slow. A month passes in a blink of an eye and it’s filled with grabbing dinner after work and doing nothing on the weekends. It isn’t _nothing_ , though, because they’re together, whether it’s taking Keith’s beast of a dog for a walk or just chilling on the sofa eating takeout. Shiro enjoys every second, wouldn’t change it for the world.

Matt has other ideas.

“Who woos someone with _Making a Murderer_ ?” he says with a snort, perching on the edge of Shiro’s desk. They’re sharing a container of Singapore noodles whilst trying to go over some meeting notes- emphasis on _trying_ , because Matt seems way more interested in Shiro’s flourishing love life than numerical data and statistics.

“I do,” Shiro says, jaw clenched. He pushes aside his portfolio with a sigh and rolls his neck. “There’s nothing wrong with true crime.”

“No,” Matt argues around a mouthful of noodle, pointing his fork at Shiro’s chest, “but there is in using it to get into someone’s pants.”

“I’m not-” he tries, but his voice comes out impossibly high. A squeak, almost, and if that isn’t incriminating enough, he feels his cheeks heat. _God_. Shiro clears his throat. “I’m not using it to get in Keith’s pants.”

“Then you already have?”

No. No, Shiro hasn’t got _in Keith’s pants_ , and he hates the expression with vehemence. He’s so used to the surge and surrender of a relationship over too fast that it’s nice to settle into a quiet kind of intimacy. They see each other, they stay close, they share slow kisses that leave Shiro breathless but at the end of the night they go their separate ways.

And Shiro’s okay with that, for now, but he can’t deny that he’s beginning to long for something more. Not sexual, not entirely- although the secrets between him and his sheets would say otherwise- but he wants to share more of his life with Keith, wants Keith to do the same with him.

“I’m not talking about this with you,” Shiro grumbles, because he can’t even form coherent thoughts for his own personal consumption yet alone to share with someone like _Matt_.

“Come on, Shiro,” he tries regardless, but it isn’t his usual pushy spiel but something softer, encouraging. Shiro understands what he’s trying to do, coaxing out his inner emotions with a tender tone and a raised brow, but he’s stubborn, and Keith is something precious that he wants to keep entirely to himself.

“We’re not rushing into things,” he says with finality, picking up his chopsticks once more and stabbing into the takeout container, “I’m perfectly happy as we are.”

But Matt continues to push, leaning across the desk and staring until Shiro hesitantly meets his gaze. “Are you?”

Shiro’s breath stutters.

He’s happy. He’s so happy- _but_.

 _But_ isn’t a word that belongs within the same proximity of happiness, and yet there he is, thinking it. He’s happy, _but_ he wonders why they’re always at Shiro’s place. He’s happy, _but_ he doesn’t even know which part of town Keith lives in. He’s happy, _but_ Shiro’s told Keith everything about his grandfather and he doesn’t even know if Keith _has_ any family.

It’s only been a month, he reminds himself, and Keith doesn’t owe him anything.

“Y-yes,” Shiro stammers before clearing his throat and trying again, stronger this time. “ _Yes_ , I am.”

“If you say so.” Matt shrugs, leaning back on his hands, though he doesn’t look convinced. “I’m just saying, the big _V_ day is approaching, and you might wanna do one better than Netflix in your pyjamas.”

“I’m on it,” Shiro grumbles- and he is. He’s got a vague plan put together, something sentimental but not too romantic as to scare Keith off. _It’s only been a month_. He feels like he’s reminding himself of that every time Keith drifts into his thoughts.

And he’s there now, at the forefront of his mind. Shiro spends too much time wondering how he is, how the library is treating him, whether he’s dealing with sweet old ladies or insufferable jerks that comment on his _pretty cheekbones._ His fingers itch to call him, to see if he’s okay- it’s after twelve, he should be on his lunch, too- but he doesn’t have to.

Keith calls first.

“Hey,” Shiro answers, giving Matt a warning look. He has his hand in a loose fist and is making gagging noises as he stuffs his tongue in his cheek.

“Hey,” Keith says, and it could be the connection but Shiro swears he hears him stutter. “Look, Shiro, I’ve gotta raincheck later.”

“Oh?” he hums, standing from his desk and stepping out of the office. He makes sure the door slams just the right amount to let Matt know he’s not _that_ annoyed, but he’s really fucking annoyed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Keith says quickly, and Shiro frowns. “I’ve just got to catch up with something after work, that’s all.”

He knows the answer already, but he has to try. “I can come to you, if that’s easier?”

“No!” Shiro’s frown deepens at Keith’s frantic tone, fingers tightening around his phone till his bones ache. It’s expected and yet it still hurts that Keith doesn’t trust him enough to let him in. “No, I’ll come to you. Later. I’ll- It’ll be late.”

“Hey, that’s fine.” _Patience_ , he reminds himself, taking a deep breath and trying for a smile even if Keith can’t see him. “I just want to see you.”

“I want to see you, too.” He’s so quiet, barely above a whisper. Not timid, more unbelieving- and Shiro feels that too. He can’t believe that he can have this; midday phone calls, morning messages, midnight makeouts that fuel a night full of dreams. “I… miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” It’s only been a few days but it feels longer, stretching and twisting with every second that passes. Shiro rubs a hand over his face, scrubs at the smile that’s real now and has his cheeks aching, and schools his expression into something less lovesick as a couple of interns pass him by. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Even through the speaker, Keith’s sigh leaves Shiro feeling weary. He so desperately wants to know what’s wrong, but he’s learned his lesson; he won’t push, at least not until he sees him in person. “Yeah. Yeah, Shiro, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.” He feels weirdly hollow when Keith hangs up but he knows it’s nothing more than a symptom of his infatuation. He takes a few minutes to recollect himself, roll his shoulders out and smooth down his shirt, before pushing back into his office.

He doesn’t see Matt at first, not until he clears his throat close to Shiro’s ear. Shiro startles, knocking into the door frame and clutching his chest. Matt just smirks. “Trouble in paradise?”

“I’m going to fire you one day.”

*

Shiro doesn’t know what to expect when evening rolls in. He doesn’t want to eat in case Keith’s expecting to have dinner, but his stomach grumbles as each hour passes and he finds himself flopped on the sofa eating a bowl of instant ramen. His phone remains silent, not that he has high hopes; when he’s in moods like this, Keith is nothing but radio silence.

He’s about to give up and start getting ready for dinner when, finally, there’s a knock. Keith’s on the other side of the door in just a pair of leggings and a hoodie, a far cry from the leathers he usually wears whilst riding. He steps into Shiro’s space without a word and wraps his arms around his waist, burying his face in the crook of Shiro’s neck.

“Hey,” Shiro says softly, kissing the top of Keith’s head and rubbing his hands over his back. Through the thin material of his sweatshirt, Shiro can feel the jut of his shoulder blades, the delicate divots of his spine. He feels small like this, hunched into him all bone and baggy fabric. Shiro holds him tighter. “What’s wrong?”

“Tired,” Keith mumbles, nose pressed against Shiro’s throat, breath warm as it fans over his skin.

“Have you eaten?” Keith nods against him. “Do you want anything?”

“You,” he says, and Shiro can feel his teeth graze below his ear before bathing the skin with his lips. “Just you.”

They barely make it to the sofa before Keith crumbles into him, kissing Shiro with an intensity that makes his blood simmer in his veins. His mouth is fervent, feverishly hot as it moves against Shiro’s, as his lips trail to his chin, to the underside of his jaw. They shift and Keith is straddling a thigh, rising and falling above Shiro in waves of rolling hips and panting breaths.

“Keith,” Shiro groans, hands tightening on his waist as he presses the flat of his tongue against his throat, dragging the barbel of his piercing up, _up_ , until he’s nipping at Shiro’s ear. Keith hums as Shiro pushes his hands beneath the hem of his sweatshirt, smooths his hands over the skin of his stomach, hot silk over straining muscle.

Their mouths meet again and Shiro is lost. Keith is intoxicating, all the heat of a wildfire with smoke that cloys, filling Shiro’s lungs with the scent of cedar, of warm skin and motor oil and the aftershave he’s come to know from spending countless hours with his nose pressed into the soft curve of Keith’s neck. It makes his head hazy, consumed by Keith, the way he moves, grinding against him as a hot tongue slips between his teeth, how his hands move from Shiro’s shoulders to his chest.

Lower.

He’s wearing sweats. The effect Keith is having on him is becoming increasingly obvious, the fabric straining against the pressure of his hardening cock. And Keith’s hungry for it, his growing erection rubbing against Shiro’s stomach as he presses impossibly closer, a hand working between them, grasping.

Shiro gasps into Keith’s mouth at the first touch, the brush of knuckles against him, then fingers, gripping through the fabric of his sweats. He loses himself in the feeling of someone else touching him after so long, biting at Keith’s lower lip and holding his hips in a bruising grip. There’s a tug at his waistband, at the thin drawstrings that are the only obstacle between him and the heat of Keith’s hand-

And he realises.

“Hey,” Shiro breathes, breaking off a kiss with noise that’s obscene in the otherwise silence of his apartment. Keith looks at him, lashes lowered, lips slick and swollen, before lowering his mouth to the swathe of collarbone revealed by the v-neck of his shirt. It’s hard, so so hard, to resist the temptation of tooth and tongue against his skin, but Shiro manages. He cups Keith’s jaw with tender fingers and draws him away despite the throaty groan of complaint. “What happened to taking it slow?”

“Fuck slow,” Keith breathes, leaning into Shiro’s palm. The size difference is dizzying; Shiro’s entire hand spans the length of Keith’s face, and he’s nuzzling at his skin like an oversized cat, turning Shiro’s wrist and grazing his lips over the thin skin veiling his veins. “I _want_ you.”

“I want you, too,” Shiro promises, pushing his free hand into Keith’s hair and cradling the back of his head. “But Keith-”

“But what?” His hand is working between them again, pushing at Shiro’s waistband with fingers that tremble. Shiro catches them, brings his shakey knuckles to his lips and kisses them. “ _Shiro_ . _Please_.”

“Please, what?” Shiro asks against his skin, moving his mouth to the back of his hand, the knoll of his wrist, to the little scars that litter his forearms like silvery constellations.

“Touch me,” he pleads, grinding his hips down into Shiro’s thigh.

“I am touching you.” But it isn’t the right thing to say. He feels Keith stiffen around him and he sniffles, turning his head when Shiro tries to brush his cheek with a thumb, glowering into the darkness. “Keith, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he says, but his teeth are gritted. He crosses his arms tight over his chest and sits back on Shiro’s thigh, looking the spitting image of petulance. “I just want my _boyfriend_ to fucking _touch_ me.”

All the air in the room is sucked into Shiro’s lungs by his shocked inhale. Keith still won’t look at him, fingers curling into his sleeves as Shiro stares and stares, wondering if he’s even realised.

“Boyfriend?” Shiro says slowly, testing the weight of the word on his tongue. It’s been there, at the back of his mind, but they’ve never expressed exactly what they were to each other.

“Yeah?” Keith turns and blinks at him, tucking hair behind his ear that falls forwards again as soon as his fingers move. He ducks his head and presses a long, lingering kiss to Shiro’s lips before drawing away, eyes gleaming.  “You are, aren’t you?”

“If that’s what you want?” Shiro says, but he’s already smiling, cheeks aching with the strain of it. Keith kisses him again and Shiro takes it as confirmation, melts into it as their fingers find each other and weave together, squeezing.

“My boyfriend,” Keith murmurs against his mouth, nipping at Shiro’s lower lip, the curve of his smile, his chin. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Shiro confirms, nudging their noses together, “But only if you tell me when something’s wrong.”

Keith nods against him and sighs, shifting so he can drape himself over Shiro’s shoulder, chin pressed into his collarbone. “It really is just work, that’s all.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks, stroking between Keith’s knuckles with his thumb.

“Not really.” Keith shrugs against him, throwing a leg over Shiro’s thigh and hooking closer. “Kinda just want you to keep kissing me.”

“Oh yeah?” Shiro says, raising a brow. He kisses Keith’s forehead, where the skin wrinkles between his eyes, the tip of his nose, dotting kisses all over his face until he’s breathless with laughter. “Like that?”

Keith hums happily but he’s not afraid of showing Shiro how he wants it done, kissing him slow and sweet with an intensity that rises but never fully crescendos. Their arousal lies between them, not forgotten but ignored in favour of this new sweetness they build, comfortable and increasingly familiar. It leaves Shiro with a lump in his throat as their affections calm and Keith cuddles into him, as they indulge in their quiet intimacy.

It’s there after Keith leaves, a heaviness that won’t fade no matter how hard Shiro swallows.

It’s still there half an hour later, when he’s laying in bed with his hand tucked beneath the waistband of his boxers.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes into his ear, crackly through the speakerphone. It’s unusual for him to call so soon, but Shiro is thrilled. There’s a rustle, then creaking. A groan. “I-... _Shiro_.”

“What?” Shiro says, curling onto his side and staring at Keith’s contact image, a photo of the two of them from one of their many late night walks. He can hear Keith’s breathing, raw and ragged, scattering through his room. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“ _Nothing_ .” But it doesn’t sound like nothing. Keith- he sounds pained. God, he knew there was something wrong. He should have made him stay, should have held him close until he relented. “I just-... I- _Shiro_.”

And then he hears it, faint but there, the unmistakable sound of skin on skin, slickened by a moist palm. Shiro can’t even swallow, mouth wet and wanting. “Are you...?”

“ _Shiro_ .” He doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know whether it’s a confirmation or a plea, but it’s whispered so desperately that Shiro can’t help but shudder at the urgency embedded in his name.

“I’m here. I’m here, baby,” he promises, tucking his phone against his ear so that he can hear him, all of him, every breath, every ghost of a whimper that rattles his bones in a way that makes him feel more alive than ever. “Tell me what you need.”

“ _You_ .” It’s punctuated with a moan. Shiro’s toes curl as he trails a hand down his stomach, fingers dipping beneath the hem of his shirt, skimming the skin just above his waistline. “Talk to me. _Please_.”

He’s never heard Keith beg before.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells him, grabbing himself through his sweats and squeezing. Keith’s sweet sounds have got him half hard and wanting but he doesn’t want to focus on anything but the voice on the other end of the phone. “Your hair, your smile, your eyes. And _God_ , your mouth, Keith. Your mouth drives me _insane_.”

Keith’s breath hitches in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, grinding the base of his palm against his crotch. He wants this, he wants to share this with Keith, _but-_ it feels so fragile, as if Shiro could breathe wrong and this delicate thing could crumble into dust. “You say the most amazing things with that mouth, and you kiss me senseless with your lips. I’ve never had anyone kiss me like you do, Keith, like you have the whole universe in between your hands.”

“I do,” Keith insists, voice catching. Shiro can hear him, the steady shuffle of sheets, the loud drag of oxygen pulling into his lungs. “I do, Shiro. You are-”

He’s fantasised about it, how Keith sounds when he climaxes, but it’s nothing in comparison to the real thing, tangible in the air around him. Keith chokes on his words, a soft moan pushing its way from his throat. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him, a quiet climax that fades into panting breath, simmering into silence. Shiro longs to touch himself, to get off to Keith getting off, but he can’t move, is afraid of disturbing the peace of that afterglow.

“Keith?” Shiro tries, when minutes pass and all there is is the steady beat of his own heartbeat in his ears. Keith hums. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, wavering. Shiro hears the dry click as he swallows, the harsh grate of him clearing his throat. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna…”

It doesn’t feel like a rejection, not exactly, but something tugs deep within Shiro’s chest. He wishes Keith were here next to him, not a tinny voice through a speaker, but a warm body with a warmer heart, a face that Shiro’s slowly learning to read despite how heavily he guards himself. It’d be easier, if only somewhat, to understand what’s going on behind his beautiful starlight eyes.

“Okay,” Shiro says despite the need to question; he doesn’t want to scare Keith away, not when he’s like this, ribs pried open and heart exposed by the vulnerability of the human desire of for sexual intimacy. And Shiro wants it too, wants to share such a naked part of himself, but he knows this was something Keith needed to do for himself. “Sleep well, Keith.”

He doesn’t say goodbye before hanging up.

Shiro lies there, the minutes faded and fuzzy, as he stews in the aftermath. For him it isn’t as much a glow as an ache, skin too tight for his skeleton, mouth dry with a thirst that water can’t sate. He’s conflicted, though; he can’t deny his arousal, but would it be right? To act upon it, when Keith’s left him so abruptly?

He tries to ignore it, rolls onto his side and grabs a paperback from the bedside table. His bookmark is the library issue slip with a little doodle Keith drew for him, a sketchy lion roaring at the moon and, what he cherishes most, a little heart. He stares at the patchy biro for too long to be healthy before resigning, tossing the book aside and slipping his hand into his pants.

It’s fast and it’s filthy. Shiro strokes himself to full hardness, spits into his palm, pretends there are slimmer fingers wrapped around himself as he jerks himself to the echo of Keith’s moans in his ears. He wonders if Keith knows that he’s touching himself right now, wonders if he’s thinking about it, fantasising how Shiro looks bucking up into his fist and biting his lip bloody.

Shiro’s lips part and Keith’s name escapes. He’s so close- _too_ close; he comes hard with a final twist of his fist over the weeping head of his cock, over the front of his shirt and dripping down his knuckles. Shiro looks down at himself, at his heaving chest and the mess he made, cock softening in his grasp.

He should feel satisfied, but.

But _Keith_.

Something feels off, unbalanced. Shiro grunts and drags his shirt off, clearing himself with it and throwing it towards his laundry basket- before sighing and getting up and disposing of it properly. Luna, who’s silently climbed atop her cat tower in the corner, blinks at him slowly, judging him in the wise old way only a feline can.

“I know,” Shiro mutters, reaching over and scratching behind her ears with his clean hand. “I know.”

*

Shiro meets Keith at the library the next day and they don’t talk about it.

 _Not_ that he’s expecting to talk about masturbation on council property, but there isn’t even a _look_. Keith greets him as he always does, a little two-finger salute as he continues with what he’s doing. Today he’s in between the shelves with an armful of books, chewing on his lip as he puts them in order.

When their eyes meet, there’s… _nothing_. Nothing that eludes to the new intimacy that they discovered last night, anyway. Shiro supposes he was anticipating more- but it’s Keith. What, was he really going to wink? Look up at Shiro from beneath his lashes and run his tongue over the inseam of his lip?

Shiro snorts at his own ignorance.

“Hey,” Keith says when Shiro’s at his side, shifting his stack from one arm to another and rearranging a row of books. He smiles, short and brief, before cussing softly beneath his breath and taking out an entire handful of paperbacks and tossing them aside on an empty shelf.  “Someone here doesn’t know how to alphabetise and once I find them, I’m gonna smack them over the head with an _Oxford English_.”

“Need a hand?” Shiro asks, resting a hand on Keith’s lower back and pressing a kiss to his cheekbone. His hair is pulled back loosely at the base of his neck and beneath the errant flyaways curling against his skin, Shiro can see light bruising in the shape of his mouth.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Keith says, bumping their hips, and Shiro manages to drag his eyes back to Keith’s face before he becomes suspicious.

“Don’t trust my literacy skills?” he jokes, lips close to his ear. His fingers are still splayed against Keith’s back, his thumb dipping under his shirt to press into the divot of a dimple at the base of his spine.

“Don’t want to get myself into _trouble_ ,” he hisses through his teeth, but his breath stutters on a laugh as he bats Shiro’s chest with a book. His restraint doesn’t last long, though; a few moments later he’s turning beneath Shiro’s touch and pressing their lips together, long and lingering. “You’re here early today.”

“I wanted to return something,” Shiro says, hooking his fingers in Keith’s belt loops and tugging him closer, “And I was also hoping this super hot librarian would give me a recommendation.”

“Oh I’ve got a recommendation, alright,” Keith mutters, giving Shiro a slow once over before placing a hand on his chest. His fingers curl into the open collar of his work shirt and he’s leaning up. Their lips brush, barely, and Keith whispers, “Go away before I get in trouble.”

He shoves Shiro lightly, but the shock of it has him stumbling back a few steps. He laughs as he recovers himself, and despite his turned shoulder he catches the upward twist of Keith’s mouth.

God, Shiro loves his smile.

Deciding to behave himself, Shiro settles into a faded leather loveseat where he gets optimal viewing of Keith’s legs disappearing and reappearing through shelves. Inside the daily newspaper is a photocopy of the crossword page, blank except a little smiling face decorating the top corner. Shiro smiles and pulls his pen out from his top pocket; there’s something incredibly endearing about Keith knowing his daily routine.

After a few minutes, a book is dropped onto the table to Shiro’s side.

“It was my favourite when I was little,” Keith comments as Shiro picks up the copy of _Howl’s Moving Castle_. He shrugs as if it doesn’t mean much, but it means everything to Shiro, a small glimpse through the shadows that Keith keeps his past cloaked within. “Ready to head out?”

They get salad boxes from a small delicatessen on the way to what Shiro’s come to name _their_ park. Despite still being winter, the sun parts the clouds with warm rays that bring out the deep red tones in Keith’s hair. Shiro tries to resist the urge to run his fingers through it, but with a combination of laughter and the light breeze, he finds an excuse in brushing his long fringe behind his ear, fingers lingering at the base of his neck.

He wants to talk about last night, about the shift between them, but there isn’t exactly a subtle way of saying _I like how you sound when you come_. He mulls it over as Keith tosses scraps to the ducks, as he smiles and speaks with such passion, even if it is only about why bread is bad for birds. There’s a fire in everything he does, a spark that warms the pit of Shiro’s stomach and heats the blood within his veins with what he can only describe as adoration.

He doesn’t want to dampen the flame, but he needs to know.

“So,” he begins, when there’s a gap in conversation. He chews the inside of his cheek as he tries to formulate his thoughts, and Keith nudges his side, encouraging. “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

Keith hums, nonchalant, but his shoulders tense. It’s only a fraction, but Shiro sees it; he sees everything, when it comes to Keith. “What about it?”

Shiro laughs and rolls his eyes, but it’s breathy, nervous thing. He’s nervous- they _both_ are, and he has the overwhelming feeling that he should have kept his mouth shut. “You know what.”

It’s quiet between them. The moment stretches and contorts between them until Shiro’s heartbeat is too loud in his ear, his breath fast, whistling through gritted teeth.

“It was nothing,” Keith says eventually. He doesn’t look at Shiro but out across the water. His jaw is clenched, brow furrowed, not with anger, not exactly, but something just as hot brewing beneath the surface. “Nothing happened.”

Shiro’s stomach drops. They come to a standstill in the middle of the path but Keith still refuses to face him. “Nothing?”

“I-...” He ducks his head but reaches between them, lacing their fingers together. Keith squeezes, and Shiro squeezes back. It’s enough. It’s got to be enough. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Shiro.”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” It’s the first thing he can think of even if the words a pale and fading, a white lie. He doesn’t want the hurt of rejection. He doesn’t want to force Keith into anything he doesn’t want. Fear trickles down his spine, cold and creeping. He takes a deep breath. “If you want to forget about it, then we can forget about it.”

Keith looks down at his feet and Shiro follows his gaze, to the tips of his biker boots that nudge against the toe of his dress shoes. It’s an agonising wait, each breath barbed and catching in his lungs. A hand rests over his chest, over his heart and Shiro’s sure Keith can feel its hummingbird beat fluttering beneath his palm.

“I don’t know what I want,” Keith admits, ducking his head and knocking his temple against Shiro’s shoulder. Beneath his touch, Shiro’s surprised to find that he’s trembling.

“That’s okay, too,” he promises, cupping Keith’s chin until he looks up, bright eyes wide with something akin to wonder. Shiro kisses him gently, thumb brushing the curve of Keith’s cheek until it rests at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be here. We can figure it out together.”

“God,” Keith murmurs, nuzzling into Shiro’s touch. “Why do you have to be so sweet?”

“I’m not,” Shiro says, but Keith scoffs in disagreement.

“You are. No one’s ever…” He glances over Shiro’s shoulder, eyes growing distant. His grip on Shiro’s hand weakens but it’s all the more reason for Shiro to squeeze his fingers, to bring Keith’s knuckles to his lips and press a between the valleys of bone. Keith startles, but it’s only a brief momentary thing before he melts beneath Shiro’s touch. “We should head back.”

He smiles, and it’s bittersweet. Shiro wonders what his words could have been before they faded into silent reminiscing, how important they were, what light they could have shed. _Patience_ , he reminds himself. By nature, it seems, Keith is a flighty little thing ready to take off at anything that ruffles his feathers. The rough winds of a conversation gone awry could have him scarpering, but Shiro’s hoping, if he treats him with tenderness, that he can change that.

Maybe.

Someday.

“Okay,” he says, wrapping an arm around Keith’s waist and letting him lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say except thank you so much for reading! I'm having an internal battle rn over the ending plot of the fic- to angst, or not to angst as one might say- but i'm hoping to have chapter four written and up tomorrow! 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, find me here:
> 
> [ tumblr (if that's even still a thing): zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ twitter, my main h2hoe: @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> xoxo Cat


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